The violin
by gothpaula
Summary: "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Was he losing… Losing his mind?" Set after The Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock/John
1. Chapter 1

Summary: "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Was he losing… Losing his mind?" Set after The Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock/John

Beta reader: SapphireElric

The violin.

I never had a problem like this before. It had always been easy for me - to start a new blog.

XXX

The day was grey and cold, but there was no rain. It was just an ugly day, one of many the Londoners had to face. John was already used to that. In Afghanistan the days were always sunny and dry, so he even found something relaxing in the weather back home. Usually. Not today.

He couldn't think about rain today. The one thing that almost always made him feel warm inside and made him feel at home. Today he could think only about how much he didn't feel at home, even if he was exactly there. In his and… In his flat at 221b Baker street.

The flat wasn't familiar and warm and didn't radiate life like it used to. Actually it frightened John lately. The last few weeks he was back living in his own room and moving around his own kitchen or just sitting in his living room and watching telly, he felt uncomfortable.

He was afraid he might feel this way and that was the reason behind his long stays at Stamford's and Harry's and even that one-week with Lestrade in his hotel room. Obviously his wife in the end left him for that P.E. teacher.

When he started sensing he had overstayed his welcome he just packed his few sweaters and jeans and moved to somewhere else. Not home, no. He couldn't come back here so early and a part of him still felt like he wasn't ready to continue living here. But he run out of friends to stay with and he didn't want to rent a hotel room, so with heavy heart he returned.

Feeling uncomfortable wouldn't even be the right word. Just everything in here reminded him of… his best friend.

Every time he heard floorboards creak he turned hoping to see Sherlock standing behind him, every time he felt a slight breeze pass him his heart jumped, thinking Sherlock was moving around the flat bored again. And at nights he swore he could hear that one sound, it's hard to explain what, but that one sound reminded him so much of when Sherlock would be sitting in his chair moving restless. But every time when he checked the living room or turned around he was met with disappointment.

Now sitting by his kitchen table and hearing the water boil in the kettle again he remembered what Sherlock once said. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side". Was he losing? …Possibly his mind?

He was even afraid to stand up; terrified he would mistake a sound or smell to be Sherlock. He couldn't possibly take it any more.

So the water stopped boiling and slowly cooled from hot, to warm and finally to cold. Until John found all his courage to stand up and boil it again. And it again stopped boiling and slowly cooled from hot, to warm, to cold.

He had already forgotten how many times he had boiled the same water when he heard the doorbell ring; quiet voices downstairs and then finally soft steps on the stairs.

He already knew who was coming, after all he had invited Molly here today, and as promised she came. Around 6-ish, after her work.

Now she and Mrs Hudson were standing by the flat's door with boxes in hands looking at him with sad eyes. He was already sick of people pitying him.

"You're just in time. I just put on the kettle." John rose from his seat. And true to his words he did recently put it on. Again.

"Um… Hi, John." Molly smiled shyly and took two unsure steps forward. She crossed her hands at the wrists and then uncrossed them and cleared her throat.

After what happened with Sherlock, it seemed she couldn't quite talk with John anymore. She was always nervous and avoided eye contact. The ex-army doctor understood it very well. It was probably very hard for her to look at him and not think about their friend.

But despite that, she still offered her help and reminded him that she will always be there to help in any way she could. They hadn't talked much, because now they didn't meet each other so often, but maybe that was even better. She reminded him so much of Sherlock. Not that it changed anything because he thought about him all the time.

"Hi," He greeted her, stepping closer and shaking her hand. She still couldn't look at him. "Do you want some tea or coffee?"

"No, no thank you, I… uhm… already had too many cups today." She answered picking up the cardboard boxes from the floor where she left them.

The room fall silent as John thought about what those boxes meant and about what they were about to do. But it needed to be done; he repeated it in his head over and over again, just like the last few days. If he won't do it today then he will never do it and he will never forget. Or at least that was what his therapist had said last week's session. According to her it was time to move on.

"So…" Mrs Hudson begun, "we can start with his room then and slowly move to the living room. What do you think John?"

The doctor looked up at the two women a bit startled. But soon understood they were talking to him and simply nodded. Mrs Hudson might know better, after all she had life experience.

Without any words all three of them moved to the bedroom right behind the kitchen. John let Molly and his landlady go in first and then took a big breath to make himself step over that threshold too.

It wasn't like he hadn't been there since the funeral, but it still was very hard.

For a moment they all stood by the bed confused as to what they should do now. The bed was well made and nothing was out of its place, out of Sherlock's system. But John knew for sure that everything as tidy and clean as it looked was still in the exact place as his friend had left it.

He allowed his eyes to slide over the room, looking for something, not sure what. Just taking in everything for the last time.

"I can deal with his wardrobe and Molly, sweetie, you can take his dresser drawer." John heard Mrs Hudson's voice but didn't pay it any attention. He didn't move away from his spot as Molly put one of the boxes on Sherlock's bed and Mrs Hudson opened the closet in the corner.

Only as Molly opened the first drawer and came face to face with Sherlock's socks did John blinked and returned to reality. The young woman was about to start putting the pieces of clothing in the box when John stopped her. For some reason he believed that he should do it. It looked like Molly understood. She moved to help Mrs Hudson and left the doctor alone.

Slowly and carefully John placed the socks in the box in the exact order as they had been in the drawer. Then he opened the next one and put all of his friend's underwear in the box too. Then came some of his undershirts and to John's surprise he even found two ties. The memory of Sherlock saying he didn't wear ties flitted across his memory briefly, but John was too tired to even begin to understand why Sherlock would own two ties when he didn't wear them.

As he finished the last drawer Molly and Mrs Hudson had already finished the rest of the room and were taking off the Mendeleev periodical system from the wall. They put it on top of the boxes and suddenly John didn't feel like he was in his friend's room. Even if it hadn't changed much.

"Living room now?" Mrs Hudson spoke up but was silenced by Molly.

"Where is his coat?" And the room froze.

John was staring at her and she was staring back at him and he knew that if he would look at Mrs Hudson she would worriedly look from one to the other.

"The doctors from the St Bartholomew's hospital gave it back to you, right? Well… umh, that's what I heard." Molly's voice trailed off uncomfortably. She lowered her gaze and anxiously squeezed her hands together.

"Molly, if… John can keep the coat." The other woman said softly.

"No, you're right. I have it. I'll bring it down," He turned around and was halfway out of the room when Molly whispered that it's okay if he wants to keep it, but John didn't stop.

He walked up the steps to his room and snatched the heavy, dark coat from the only chair. For a moment he stopped and thought about all the times he saw Sherlock being all mysterious and pulling the collar up or about how the coat swung around his body as he ran through London's streets. But then the moment was gone and he walked back down forcing himself not to think about it anymore.

He found the boxes by the door and put the coat on top of them.

Mrs Hudson was already loading another box full of books from the shelves. And Molly was standing next to the grey, leather chair looking down on it. John came to stand next to her, but he looked out of the window instead.

"D-Do you want to keep anything? Or should I throw everything out?" Molly asked quietly, her voice trembling. The doctor could tell she was being careful of what she said, but he didn't need it. He won't break, like a piece of glass.

"No you can take everything, I don't need it. Throw it out, keep it, I don't care."

"Okay" And she picked up another box helping Mrs Hudson with her task.

At first she loaded some books of physiology or biology or other things John hadn't really cared about. Obviously they all were Sherlock's. Then she picked up the skull from the fireplace. She looked at it and put it in the box. But John cleared his throat.

"I'll keep that. And the microscope. Everything else you can take." He walked up to her and took the shiny and smooth skull from her. He put it on Sherlock's chair and then found the microscope and put it on the chair too.

Molly nodded and continued.

For a while John just stood there breathing deeply. He tried not to look at the books and other things disappearing in the boxes, but couldn't take is eyes off of it for too long. And when he did he stared at the yellow smiley face on the wall. It smiled right at him with the bullet holes in it.

He remembered that well. How Sherlock jumped around the room yelling he's bored and shooting at it. John also remembered how he thought he would never get used to the other man, and now he missed him so much.

The doctor spun around quickly and picked up the skull and microscope and put them safely in the box in Molly's hands. She looked up at him, but luckily didn't say anything.

If he doesn't do it now he will never do it and he will never forget, he repeated it again. And again. Until it started to sound like lies more then usual.

When it was all finished John remembered about Sherlock's coffee mug he had to look at every morning and about the other man's toothbrush and went to get them too. He came back with few shampoo bottles and the blue robe in his hands too. He wanted everything that might remind him of Sherlock gone. Now this was only his apartment.

"I guess that's it," Molly sighted taking the last boxes to the door.

"What about his violin?" Asked Mrs Hudson. Yes, there was Sherlock violin too. It needed to vanish.

John was the one who picked it up from the table by the window and put it in one of the opened boxes.

"Then that's all now." Molly sighed again. She looked tired and her eyes skimmed around the place. And it occurred only now that maybe this will be the last time John will see her here.

"I'll take them to your car," John offered. He wasn't much help to them as they packed it all and he wanted to do at last something.

"I'll help you," Molly opened the doors for him so he could make it through.

Box after box was loaded and soon the car was full. It felt easier and at the same time harder with every one he carried out of the house. He knew he had to say goodbye, but despite what others said, he didn't feel ready to do that, this didn't feel right. But here he was.

"You have to do it, or you will never forget," he whispered to himself as he put the last box in the car.

He looked over them and for a moment thought if Molly will really throw all of these things away. How can you just throw away someone's life? And it didn't matter if this someone was dead; it was still someone's life.

He rubbed at his eyes as he heard Molly coming up to him from behind. He straightened and closed the car's door turning to face the young woman.

Her shoulders were sagged and her eyes really sad, but for some reason John had the impression that she wasn't sad for Sherlock, but for him. He shook his head a bit clearing his mind. Sherlock meant so much to her and for a fact John knew, maybe he didn't notice all the things Sherlock could, but he noticed this. Molly loved the detective even if he never returned her feelings. It must be even harder on her then it was for him.

"This is the number of my friends, you k-know, the men who can take away the furniture. I-If you want to," Molly said in her usual unsure voice looking to her right than at him. She was holding a card in her hand that John took. He didn't know if he would use it, but knowing that he had it made him feel somehow at ease. He had a choice.

"Thank you, for everything,"

"Of course. Anytime, John," She leaned forward and wrapped her hands around his shoulders.

It was an awkward hug. Neither of them really wanting to hug the other, but doing it anyway. Maybe to be polite or seek comfort.

When Molly pulled away the doctor let out a slow breath through his nose. They stood there for a little while uncomfortable and feeling unfamiliar with a situation like this until John coughed a bit. He turned around, opened the car's doors and pulled out the violin. He looked up at Molly for confirmation and she nodded a bit.

John just needed something, anything from Sherlock. He couldn't just throw the last two years away along with his friend's stuff.

As Molly got into her little, dark red car and drove away John couldn't decide if he had done the right thing keeping the violin. From one side he wanted something that would resemble Sherlock, but from the other side he wanted to forget.

He turned around and took the few steps up to 221b Baker Street and closed the door after himself. Mrs Hudson was already waiting for him, offering tea and cookies, but he declined. She noticed the musical instrument in his hands, but didn't say anything and John didn't offer any explanations. He just walked up the stairs to his flat.


	2. Chapter 2

Beta reader: SapphireElric

The violin.

It's been five months and six days. I still count them… I hope I will stop soon.

XXX

"Is there anything specific you want to talk about?" The woman across from him was wearing a sand coloured dress suit, shoes black, high-heeled. Her nails painted in blood red colour.

"No." He shook his head. Both of them didn't say anything for a while after that.

That just gave him an opportunity to think more about her nail colour. It didn't match with anything else she wore. Her handbag was black, leather as well, matching her shoes and jewels. Why would she paint her nails red if she usually was so careful to match everything till the last detail?

"Is there something on your mind lately?" She asked again, leaning forward in her seat. The man just shook his head.

He remembered the roses on her desk, remembered wondering who would send her flowers. How did he know they were a present-there was a little card in them. Barely visible, but he still had caught it.

"If there is nothing on your mind, then how come you're looking so thoughtful?" She now cocked her head to one side a little, studying his face.

"I-I'm… nothing." What could he say? That he was trying to _deduce_ whether she's going on a date this evening or not?

"No, there is obviously something bothering you, John. You can tell me." Her voice was calm and reassuring and weirdly deep for a woman. Like always. It must come with her job; after all she had to know how to calm people down. She was a therapist.

"I was just thinking… Are you having a date tonight?" John asked, but couldn't force himself to look at her face.

There was a silence for a while. John could imagine how startled and confused she looked.

"I… How did you know?" Ella Thompson finally asked and that was when John looked up at her.

"Your nails are painted red." He said, in a matter of fact voice. Like even an idiot would understand the connection between her nails being red and her date tonight.

She raised her eyebrows. John's explanation wasn't enough for her.

"You usually match your outfit, even makeup. But today you don't have anything red on you except nails. They are… well… manicured. You're busy so I guess you didn't do them. So you paid someone to do them, but they don't match your outfit." John mumbled, not quiet sure how to explain.

"So I thought they were done for another outfit… An important outfit. And the flowers on your desk, they are kind of out of place, there have never been flowers on your desk before. And the little note…" The doctor finally trailed off, understanding only now that he did the one thing that he didn't want to do.

His therapist stared at him for a while, her back stiff and pressed to the back of the chair. She stared at him and soon John couldn't take it anymore and lowered his gaze.

"You… deduced that?" Ella said slowly, being extra careful and clear saying the word 'deduced'.

John nodded.

"I think we have talked about this, John. You… You have to let him go. It's been so long already." Her voice turned from confused to sad and compassionate.

"I already did that. I let him go. I got rid of all his stuff." John tried to defend himself pitifully. There was no use in doing that. The woman across from him always saw right through him.

"I'm not talking only about his stuff at your flat, John. This," She waved her hand at him, "This, what you just did. You are still holding on to him, by doing this." John nodded, but didn't quite agree.

How could he explain that he just did this? That yes, Sherlock may be the reason behind this, but it was something he just did. Sherlock forced him to be observant. Now it was too late to do anything about it. But he couldn't imagine his therapist would understand.

"Have you tried to write anything? In your blog?" She asked, her deep voice ringing in John's head.

Had he tried? Actually no, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to.

"No," He admitted looking down at his hands.

"Maybe you should try to do that again. You know, write out all your negative emotions and start from a blank page."

Negative emotions? He missed Sherlock, was that anything negative? John thought it was positive; at least it proved that Sherlock had a friend.

They talked a bit more. Or at least she talked. John answered with yes or no, or grunts. Sometimes he nodded his head or shook it. He wasn't one to really talk about his emotions. Maybe because of the war… he didn't know. He didn't actually know why he even came here. It just felt natural-he met Sherlock and stopped this. Now that Sherlock's gone…

Soon he was standing outside on the street, thinking of what he should do next. He didn't have to work today and he didn't feel like doing anything that asked too much of his energy. Lately he'd been feeling really tired. Even when he would just wake up from hours of good night sleep; he couldn't keep his eyes open and wanted to sleep some more.

That was usually the excuse he used when someone wanted to spend the night at the pub with him or wished to visit. He was either tired or busy. One a big fat lie, the other so much true that it scared John from time to time.

He had thought about the signs of depression. Feeling tired was one of them. But he didn't let himself to dwell on it too much.

For a few minutes he just walked around without any destination. The doctor considered going to the market just so he would have something to do, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. Being in a grocery store, full of people, no. That wasn't for today.

He turned to head home, sighing, when a black, shiny car pulled up next to him. The windows were tinted and John couldn't see who was inside, but knew the car. Mycroft.

The door to his side opened and with annoyed look John got inside, closing the door maybe a bit too harshly. He was met with the said man in his usual suit and tie. The car started to drive almost instantly.

"What now?" John asked not so nicely.

"I have some news regarding Sherlock's last will," The older Holmes answered not looking in his direction.

When John thought about it, he came to conclusion that since Sherlock died he had seen Mycroft only once. That one day, few days after the funeral, when he came and announced that his brother had had a testament, and not so small amount of money in his bank account, and according to his last will it all goes to him-John Hamish Watson.

News like that confused John. He couldn't think of any one reasonable explanation why would Sherlock leave all his money to him. He wasn't a person who cared about others. And the fact that his friend had a last will… was all foreign to him.

He recalled how even Mycroft had looked confused and didn't quite understand his brother's motives, but accepted them. They had talked shortly. The older Holmes, the only Holmes brother now, promising he would deal with all the problems and obstacles so he could get the money, and then left.

It had happened right before so many things that John had simply forgotten about it. Until now.

"And?" John asked impatient. He had never really liked being alone with Mycroft and after what he did to Sherlock… John was just angry. At the said detective, his brother, Moriarty, himself. Everyone.

"There," Mycroft answered handing him an envelope. "It's all dealt with; the money is in the account and you have full access to it now. Have a great time spending it."

John took the white envelope tucking it into his jacket's inner pocket. He didn't look inside it. He could care less if he got Sherlock's money or not.

Casting his eyes at the other man in the car, he noted how Mycroft was still looking outside the window at the passing world. It seemed like he just physically couldn't look at him.

The first thought that came to John's head was 'just like Molly', but thinking about it a bit, the doctor denied it. While Molly didn't look at him, because, of what John assumed, was shame or disappointment; Mycroft didn't look at him because of grief. He looked so sad.

If John hadn't had the pleasure to meet the man before Sherlock died, he wouldn't call his expression anything definite. But comparing his usual face and this face… it would be clear even to a blind man.

"I gave all Sherlock's stuff to Molly. Just so you know in case, you know… you want anything." John offered. He didn't want to pity the other man, but thought it would be fair if he knew.

Instead of an answer John received a nod.

Soon John felt the car stop and knew they were at his place. Casting one last look in the other's direction he climbed out not saying another word. And what could he say. They weren't friends and like with a lot of people recently, John discovered, that without Sherlock there was no reason for them to meet anymore.

The car came to life the moment he was on the pavement and drove off. Looking after it John put his hand in the jacket's pocket feeling the thick envelope there. He was tempted to know what was in it, but the moment he found out about the money, he swore to himself that he would never use it.

Sighing, he went back in 221b Baker Street.

His limbs felt heavy and his back ached a little and he decided to go to bed. A little sleep wouldn't hurt anyone.

XXX

John never brought flowers when he visited Sherlock. It felt too girly and besides, the dead man underground would never appreciate them. Not that he would appreciate them if he was still alive. So flowers in a situation like this felt silly.

It wasn't often that he came here at all. Sometimes when Mrs Hudson asked him to come along he would come, but other than that, he tried not to. He still tried to listen to his therapist and distant himself from all Sherlock as much as possible. But sometimes it was too hard.

Just like it had proven to be, when he got an unexpected visit by Rosemary Breton.

A young girl who studied history and English in college. Brunette, with surprisingly dark eyes and little freckles on her cheeks and nose. She was the reason John was now standing by Sherlock's grave. The black stone with the white name on it staring right back at him, making him feel out of place.

It all happened just yesterday. He had returned from his tiring day with his therapist and Mycroft and had just wanted to get some sleep which he successfully gained, but not as much as he had wished. He was brought out of it by a very excited young woman-Rosemary.

She had come in hopes to see exactly him and even if at first John was wary, because of his experience with journalists and paparazzi, he couldn't ignore the devastated look on her face. Eyes so deep with sadness, blue circles around them and face twisted in a grimace that reminded him of all those faces he had seen in Afghanistan.

The girl looked like she was in pain.

How it turned out, she had come to ask his help. She had heard about all the things Sherlock had done and even if he was now dead she remembered about the 'Doctor who lived with him and helped him solve the cases'. Her words.

After hearing her story John really wanted to help her, but something was holding him back. Maybe his therapist's words 'You have to let him go. It's been so long already.', maybe the fact that he knew he wouldn't be able to solve this without his friend.

In the end he was forced to ask the crying girl to leave, wishing her luck in finding her brother. But she just kept on pleading and promising him anything he wanted, _anything._ It hurt John to see her act this way.

All yesterday's events made it hard for him to sleep and he managed to get some rest only at the early hours of morning when the sun was starting to raise. And even then it wasn't much.

So here he was. By his best friend's grave. Memories of five months ago when he stood in this exact place pleading Sherlock to be alive, still fresh in his mind. Even after all this time-these five months and seven days-nothing really had changed. Somehow it all came down to the time he so desperately wanted to turn back.

Even if he said, quietly at nights, that five months was a long time to just man up and get over it, he still couldn't. For some reason…

John was a doctor. He knew how fragile a human's life could be. How easily someone could take it away with the right weapon-a gun, knife or even a baseball bat. Anything actually. It was so easy… but still. It hurt so much.

It had never hurt this much. Even when he saw his friends fall in that damn Afghanistan, it hadn't hurt so much; he had never felt this way.

Maybe it was that way because of what Sherlock said right before he jumped. It still haunted John. Did he want to make John angry with him, because he shouldn't have tried so hard. Killing himself was a good enough reason to be mad…

John sighed, looking up at the skies. They were grey, it would rain soon… or so he hoped. He wished to see rain and feel soothed and relaxed again…

He took a breath and held it in. When he started to feel dizzy he let it out and just like that time five months ago he brushed his hand over his eyes, hardened his face, turned around and walked away. Promising again that he will never come here.


	3. Chapter 3

Beta reader: SapphireElric

The violin.

I miss his ridiculous texts… and limbs in my fridge.

XXX

It was so quiet.

No, it wasn't. John could hear cars outside, dogs barking, people laughing and yelling. It was always something, but spite that, it was quiet.

So, so quiet, that John couldn't remember when was the last time, it had been this… quiet.

The ex-army doctor looked down at his hands. Or at least where his hands were; it was too dark to tell them apart. But that didn't stop his imagination. He knew how they looked-small, rough, trembling slightly.

The darkness provided some kind of safety. The kind of safety you are happy to have, but at the same time hate. And John did actually hate it right now.

Mainly because it will never last. This safety, this protection, illusion. Morning will come, and darkness will disappear, leaving him feeling worse than before; leaving him with nothing more than to face the truth.

He thought back to why he was feeling bad in the first place.

Why? Such a simple question, with so many difficult answers.

The cause of John now sitting in his living room in the middle of the night, looking at his hands, finally understanding how quiet his life had become was his nightmares. Or just dreams, he supposed, because they weren't actually nightmares. Well, they definitely weren't the textbook definition of nightmares. But they were the worst kind of dreams John could have.

Even thinking about them hurt. But he guessed that was the point. His brain had made them to hurt him. And how stupid was that-he was hurting himself.

The nightmares; dreams; call them whatever you want, were what was haunting him now. And will during the upcoming working day and the next day after that and probably the whole week. John knew that, because now he had a glimpse of what he was trying so hard to forget.

He had seen Sherlock, and himself, running, solving cases, unravelling mysteries, laughing on the sofa while eating take-outs and watching crappy telly.

These kinds of dreams, that made everything seem so fine and easy for a while, were the worst dreams he could have. Mainly because he knew, the minute he woke up, that Sherlock was actually dead and nothing will be like it had been in his dreams.

It was like he had to live those horrible weeks again; all over again. Watch his best friend jump, watch his coffin being laid in the ground and then buried.

He couldn't sleep anymore. He wasn't scared to see another of his personal nightmares, no. He wasn't scared. He just wasn't tired anymore.

A lie. John was lying to himself again.

But even if he tried to sleep, he wouldn't be able to. This quietness, nothingness that was his life now. It was like an echo of everything he used to have. This was exactly how his life was before he met Sherlock, before that arrogant, emotionless bastard of a friend made him happy. And he just couldn't accept that now it was all over.

John clenched his hands and unclenched them. He felt like hitting a wall. He felt like lying down and never getting up. He felt like everything had stopped and at the same time, like everything was spinning out of control.

He took a deep breath and held it in. And held it in. And his head started spinning, but he didn't let it out. The action just brought back memories of days ago, of the graveyard and his little visit.

John clenched his jaw, his teeth started to hurt. But he felt like he couldn't breathe. Maybe that he didn't deserve to breathe. If he couldn't stop his best friend from jumping, what did that tell about him as a friend…? He was a crappy friend.

He finally let the air out.

He was the worst kind of friend anyone could have. Anyone else would try to talk their best friend out of suicide, try to reassure him that he's needed, that everything will be alright, that they can make it through. But instead John… God, he didn't even remember what he said to Sherlock.

John took a shaky breath, suddenly painfully aware of the quietness. Again.

The normal, boring everyday life was screaming in his face. Nothing will be as it was before! Deal with it!

But he couldn't. He couldn't.

He could throw all Sherlock's belonging away, he could stop talking to their friends, he could go to his therapist every day, but that wouldn't change anything. That won't bring Sherlock back.

John stood on shaky legs. Why were they shaking? He sighed.

Slowly he walked to the other bedroom in the flat. The one room where he didn't have the courage to go in.

He opened the door; it creaked, and he walked up to the bed. It hadn't changed, why would it? No one had been in here; no one had slept in it. Even when Sherlock was alive, was he sleeping in it?

It was still so quiet. John couldn't sleep. He just laid in the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

He couldn't change anything anymore. How pathetic, how dull, never changing. Sherlock would be so angry with him, but he's not. Because he's dead. And John couldn't change that.

XXX

It was his second beer, Lestrade's third. They were in a pub, a small, quiet, dark pub, where no one asked unnecessary questions and no one really cared. The detective inspector had said he liked these kinds of places, where no one knew who he was. Long ago John decided that he liked it here too.

The two of them were sitting at a small table near the corner. It was a habit both of them had adopted when John was living with the other man few months back. Since then they had made it their routine; once every other week meeting up and just drinking, until they thought they couldn't handle it anymore.

Sometimes they talked; usually it was Lestrade, who tried to engage John into conversations. Rarely he successeded.

"She wants to divorce," Lestrade whispered in his glass half full of light beer.

John sighed. He kind of predicted that.

"Sorry," He answered, not really knowing what he should say. The years in Afghanistan had made it hard to express his emotions and that made it extra hard to understand others.

"Yeah. Sorry won't do any good." The detective took a long swig of his beer, putting it down on the table and pushing it away. "I thought she just wanted some time off, you know. Not that she would break it up completely."

Lestrade was now looking at John. His expression pathetic, maybe sad. He didn't look angry and John expected anger. But he was devastated…

"And you're supposed to be angry," John whispered, not meaning for Lestrade to hear.

"I know. But she's the angry one instead. Stupid." He hissed taking his glass again. John drunk from his in time with Lestrade.

Thinking about it the ex-army doctor wondered why the detective inspector wasn't angry. He would most definitely be, if his wife cheated on him and then wanted to divorce. But maybe Lestrade loved her so much that he couldn't bring himself to be angry. Or maybe he was tired. Just like John himself was always too tired to do the important stuff, he was too tired to hate his wife.

For a while they sat there. Drinking their beers. Lestrade ordered another one for both of them and they sat there drinking again.

John didn't think much about it, he didn't wish to start up a pointless, boring conversation, but he knew that was the reason Lestrade was here. They had become like friends during his short stay at the other's. And somewhere between their first night out drinking and John's first rant while completely wasted, Lestrade had made it his mission to get John back to his feet.

The doctor knew it; he could see the almost determined expression the other wore every time they entered a pub. And the defeated expression his face had taken over, when they'd leave.

"We have a new case," Lestrade started, leaning back in his chair, his voice kind of by-the-way. Like mentioning it was just an accident. "An interesting one."

John eyed the man, trying to predict his train of thoughts. He doubted talking about cases will make him feel better, but after the last night he was ready to try almost anything. He just wanted to forget, dream dreamlessly, not hear the quietness of the flat; just live, move on.

"Do share," John answered leaning back in his own seat. Lestrade smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So we found this man. He was a businessman, came here from France. So he's in a hotel room, all doors locked, windows locked, but he's inside his bathroom. Doors locked too." Lestrade eyes were shining like they were holding a secret only he was allowed to know, but wanting to share so desperately.

"And?" John asked, impatient.

"And he's dead," The inspector answered simply, searching his face. John just furrowed his eyebrows.

"What's so interesting about that?" He sighed taking his beer. The liquid was bitter, but the effect-welcomed.

"He was in the bathtub, with a gun in his hands. We thought it was a suicide," Lestrade continued and John wanted to interrupt the other. He didn't want to hear anything about suicides. But he didn't…

He took his beer holding it to his lips waiting for the other to say the rest. His jaw was clenched, but he ignored that.

"But, that would be impossible, you see." There it was again, that sparkle in Lestrade's eyes. "Because the man was shot twice in his head. From the gun in his hands. No fingerprints except his own, no traces of break in, but the most interesting thing-no way of getting in the bathroom, other then the door. But they were locked. And that could be done only…" He trailed off raising his eyebrows waiting for the other to finish.

"From the inside," John obeyed, lowering his glass. He was kind of relieved it hadn't turned out into a talk about suicide. For a moment he had thought that was the point why Lestrade was telling him this. But thinking about it more, the policemen thought most murders were suicides.

"Exactly. And no one has any idea how this happened." The detective inspector was smirking. He looked happy about the case and that was weird. They were at dead end. "I bet he would have liked this," Lestrade said it so quietly that John almost missed it.

"He would have," John agreed drinking half of his glass's content in one go.

The man across from him was looking at him, with the same sad eyes everyone else always looked at him.

"He would have jumped around the room, squealing like a little girl. Saying something like 'Finally, someone's murdered in this boring town!'" Lestrade did an excellent job at mimicking Sherlock's voice that John couldn't stop the laugh that escaped his mouth. It lasted for a second, but it was enough. Lestrade was laughing too; a short, quiet laugh of his own.

"And then he would tell when the man had his last orgasm by looking at his socks," John murmured. This earned a loud cough and laugh from his companion. But John himself stopping his laughs. They felt wrong, rude.

"And then he would call us all stupid, and would make Anderson leave the room, because his heart somehow ruins the evidence just by beating, or something like that." The other remarked.

They sat in silence after that. The laughs vanishing and smirks disappearing. The more John thought about it, the worst he felt. He missed all that. He missed his friend's weird ways of doing things. He missed it so much.

"I miss him making fun of Anderson," Lestrade murmured, sipping his beer.

John didn't respond for a while.

"Yeah, don't tell me. I liked seeing Anderson's face every time Sherlock made a joke about his level of intelligence. He always knew what to say not even thinking about it." John put down the now empty glass on the table. He heard Lestrade snicker. He was probably agreeing.

With the detective inspector it had always been easy to just sit and talk about nothing. He never asked how John was feeling or if there was any way, how he could help. It wasn't that he didn't care; he just cared in his own way. And John liked that kind of way.

They drank another beer each, before they decided to leave. It was already past eleven and Lestrade had work in the morning. But John awaited another long, boring day.

The ex-army doctor returned at his flat in ten minutes. He didn't even stop, but passed by the living room and kitchen. He walked straight up to his bedroom, determined to get some sleep. But didn't fall asleep hours afterwards.


	4. Chapter 4

Beta reader: SapphireElric

The violin.

Sometimes I think of him in Present tense.

XXX

Another nightmare. They were more frequent recently. Since he moved back. The only difference about this one was that it actually was a nightmare. One John wished to never see again. It was more then enough to see Sherlock fall once. He didn't need a reminder every night.

For some reason John had thought that Sherlock was different. Didn't bend to the same rules everyone else did. So he had felt safe; far away from death and army. But he guessed there were some rules that were meant for everyone. But who would have known…

He should. He was a doctor! Everyone died in the end. He would also die… alone. Without his best friend.

Funny, how John found the courage to call Sherlock his best friend after he passed away. What was wrong with him? Why didn't he say what Sherlock meant to him when he had the chance? Maybe he didn't wear all his emotions on his sleeve, but he should have said something. It was always a colleague or flatmate. Never the word he actually wanted to say. He was such a coward… like Sherlock would have noticed or cared; at least it would be off his chest.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't slept well. And many sleepless nights made him grumpy. He had even yelled at Mrs Hudson to shut up when she came to do his laundry. He should apologize. But later.

He leaned back in his chair. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he didn't even try. Dreams haunted him. He had enough of them.

John's eyes trailed to the chair opposite of him. Sherlock's chair. There was his violin too. Somehow John felt its place was on the detective's chair.

He hadn't touched it much; maybe fearing the magic will disappear. Right now it was special from afar, what if it won't be if John pulled a string or slid his fingers over the surface? What if it wouldn't be the same?

It was ridiculous, he knew. He only had memories of Sherlock playing it and no one else in the world would play it like him, but he still feared. Feared it may sound different, might have a different scent. John didn't dare to touch it. The violin was special. He couldn't explain how, but it was. Better leave the only thing that calmed him down untouched.

"Nice to see you're up and going," The voice startled him and he jumped in his seat. Turning around to face the door he met Mycroft and Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, John, were you busy? Mycroft just wanted to see you," The old lady spoke in her usual trembling voice, keeping her hands in front of her mouth.

"No, it's okay," John answered. He wanted to say something more. Ask for forgiveness from his landlady, but he couldn't order that to his tongue. He just stared at them.

"Well, then I…" His landlady trailed off, gave him one last look and left John and Mycroft alone. What did he want?

Looking at Mycroft he hadn't changed. Still wearing his awfully expensive suits and an umbrella in one hand. John looked out the window but didn't see any rain. Maybe Mycroft was just careful.

The Holmes walked further inside the small living space. His eyes roamed over the room, taking in the untidy condition and loss of his brother's books. Without them even John had to admit, it looked too bare; too boring.

"You kept my brother's violin," The man spoke up. His words melding together, like always.

John looked at him. He considered glaring; fighting for the musical instrument, but Mycroft didn't wish to confiscate it. More like made a point. What point?

"If you want anything Molly might still have something." Probably not, but John felt stupid not replying.

"Why would I want anything?" Mycroft smirked, lifting his eyebrows. John furrowed his own.

Mycroft sounded so sure of himself, not like John. The doctor was twitchy and restless, doubtful and distant. Mycroft still avoided eye contact but John got the impression that he was better. And nothing had changed for him…

"Why are you here? Did you bring me a present, cause sorry, I didn't get anything for you," John hissed. He couldn't stand the other man and now, he couldn't stand him even more. Why was he allowed to be okay with Sherlock's loss, but not him?

"Just to talk to you." Mycroft put the umbrella on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa, ready to have a long talk. He completely ignored John's remark.

"So no present, eh?" John hissed again impatiently.

It was two days before Christmas and he was bitter. He still remembered the last year. Everyone was here, they gave presents and laughed. Then everything was ruined when Sherlock found Mrs Adler's little red box, but until then everything had been great. The best Christmas John had had in a while.

"I think this conversation won't be that short." The other man waved his hand. Something was hiding behind his smile. "So can you make some tea?" Not really a question.

"I doubt I want to hear this," John mumbled. But still, he turned around and put the pot to boil. Maybe some tea would relax him.

"No, no, I assure you, John, you do want to hear this," He heard coming from the living room. So smug, so arrogant. Like always. Did it run in their family? But John would rather put up with Sherlock than live with Mycroft. Even if he was an ass, didn't talk for days, played his violin in the middle of the night.

John returned with a tray. Poured some tea in his cup, sat down. Mycroft looked at him, but the ex-army doctor brushed it off. If the government man wanted some tea, he could pour it himself. But he didn't.

"Why the violin?" The older Holmes asked. The question puzzled John.

"That's what you wanted to talk about?" He looked down at his cup. Could he get this over quickly? John knew he couldn't just ask Mycroft to leave. He could, but that would never happen. So he just had to clench his teeth and get this over with.

"Oh, I thought we could chat a little before that." Mycroft smiled his usual smile. His posture calm and open, but careful at the same time: not giving anything away.

John put his cup down and licked his lips. He didn't have many visitors lately, but he wasn't desperate for some company. The last person he wanted to chitchat with was Mycroft. He would gladly try to explain his non-existent feelings to his therapist than talk about the weather with him.

"Just say what you want to say and leave," He wasn't polite; maybe he should be. Did Mycroft even deserve his kindness? He was still angry with him for what he did to Sherlock. And he didn't know if he could ever forgive him.

"I could, but I wanted to know how you've been. I assume you don't have money problems. That's good," He looked around curious while talking. "I know you're back to going to your therapist. What was her name?" Mycroft paused to pull out a notepad from his pocket. "Ah! Ella Thompson. How's that going?"

John swallowed. To start an argument probably wouldn't be the best idea now.

"So?" He asked annoyed and crossed his arms.

"Calm down, John. I'm just being friendly."

"Yeah, you're trying to do that often recently." The ex-army doctor bit back. Saw how Mycroft stiffened a little. John hoped he felt regret. If he hadn't leaked that information maybe Sherlock would still be alive.

"You're angry with me. But I'm here in your best interests."

"Really?" He grunted under his breath. What did Mycroft think he was? Maybe he occupied a 'minor' position in the British Government, but he wasn't his friend. Not even an acquaintance.

"Please, stop being sarcastic. I thought we put all that Moriarty thing behind us," The Holmes waved his hand in a dismissive manner.

John wanted to laugh, wanted to ask 'when!?' but didn't. He was kind of shocked. Well, not kind of. He was shocked, dumbfounded, speechless. His hands were trembling in his lap, but not from distress. John was clenching them that much. He could even feel his nails digging in his skin.

"Why do you have that impression?" Just barely, he contained himself and didn't roar. He guessed Mrs Hudson didn't need to her him yell at the top of his lungs.

"Don't make a scene now,"

"You fucking idiot!" Mycroft's eyes shot wide open, "Do you even care that because of you Sherlock died! If you hadn't… you fucking jerk. Sherlock is my-" John stopped. "Sherlock _was_ my friend, your brother! Your brother! And you did that to him! But you don't even regret it! Are you a sociopath too, or what?" John was breathing hard. He hadn't yelled so much in a long, long time.

For a while everything that John heard was his breathing. He couldn't calm down. Not until the man would leave. All John hoped for was that Mrs Hudson didn't hear that.

"Alright," Mycroft cough scratching his cheek. "You're angry"

"It's your fault my best friend is dead," That was everything John wanted to say. He needed to blame someone and he couldn't blame Sherlock for it this time. And truth be told, he was sick of blaming himself.

"But that's the good news John," Mycroft leaned forward smiling. Didn't he hear anything John just said?

"God., I don't want to listen to this," His voice was… so desperate, sad, small, pathetic. He was so, so pathetic. Pleading… He was a soldier; soldiers never pleaded.

"Listen John," Mycroft was still smiling.

"I'm sick of listening. I'm aware of your opinions. You didn't care about your brother; I don't know what he did to you, but whatever. You're glad he's dead. And that makes me hate you. Please leave." John couldn't even look at Mycroft. He couldn't understand how someone could do this to their brother. He had a sister and even if she was a lesbian and a drunkard, he would never wish her dead.

Mycroft sat there for a moment longer. Then he rose to his feet, took his umbrella.

"I'm sorry," He should leave. John didn't need to hear more lies. He'd heard enough coming from his mouth as it was. "Merry Christmas," Mycroft took the time to look guilty for a moment longer and then left.

The ex-army doctor was left to sit on his own. His head was hurting. He could hear Mrs Hudson lingering outside his door; wished she wouldn't come in. When she left John picked up the pillow behind his back and threw it in the direction of the sofa; exactly where Mycroft had been sitting.

XXX

John was here again. In Ella's office.

He had been quiet since the session started. His therapist as well. She wasn't trying to get him talking like usually, but her eyes were always on him. Was she trying to deduce him? Trying to find out answers to her questions not asking them? She might be good at what she did-but not as good as Sherlock.

"Tell me about your days," John checked her out. She was smiling her encouraging smile and using her calm tone. A different tactic this time.

"There's nothing to tell," The answer earned that look from Ella. That look made John's toes go cold. "Went to work yesterday. Nothing interesting. Watched some telly. I found this one channel that's showing Doctor Who on Friday nights. My sister called. That's it."

"What did she want? Your sister?" John just shook his shoulders. Actually all she wanted was to rant about his phone being off. He guessed it was because of her own sour mood. "Maybe next time she calls ask her out somewhere," Yeah, good idea. Getting drunk with his alcoholic sister.

"I don't think so," John shook his head.

Ella eyed him and scribbled something down in her notes. John couldn't see what; the woman had pushed her chair back, so he couldn't read them again. Then she crossed her hands over the pages. The ex-army doctor noticed how her nails were painted with transparent nail polish. Probably trying to avoid a slip up like that one a while back.

"And how's it been living in your flat. Have you been somewhere except to grocery store and downstairs to your landlady?" Actually John stopped visiting Mrs Hudson. He was just too moody lately and he didn't want to make her awkward.

"Mmmm…" John drummed his fingers on his thigh. That resulted with Ella writing something down again. He wished she hadn't pushed her chair so far away, but he although probably could guess what she wrote down. Isolated, antisocial, singleton.

"How was your Christmas?" She tried again to get John talking but he answered with the same. Christmas had been eventless; watching old Christmas movies for the tenth time in his short life wasn't something interesting.

"Have you been sleeping well?" How does she do that?

"Yes," He said as confident as he could. But for some reason he felt that it wouldn't be enough.

"Yes? Then why do I see ring under your eyes?" Ella was still smiling. She always smiled. It was somehow sickening. John sometimes wondered if it made her happy. Pointing out all the things people wanted to be secrets. Sherlock liked that. It made him ecstatic. But he was a sociopath. "Tell me why you don't sleep."

It was more of an order, because Ella never asked. She ordered and gave advice. But they were more like orders too.

"I don't think…" John trailed off. He didn't want anyone to know about his dreams. He felt sick having them. And lately he had them more and more. Sometimes he would go to sleep and wake up an hour later even if the dream felt like years long. But the worst part was when he was so tired after them that he couldn't keep his eyes open and fell asleep again.

"John, please. How can I help you if you don't let me?" Because maybe he thought he didn't deserve help? But he couldn't say that. She would wrongly conclude that he was depressed. "John," He sighed.

"I… It's just… I have these dreams sometimes," More like every time he closed his eyes. John swallowed.

"What are they about?" Now she had leaned forward; clearly interested in every word he said.

"You know," John look down at his hands. He didn't want to say this… but he wanted to forget Sherlock. Maybe not him, but the pain and loneliness and emptiness. "They are about me a-and Sherlock. And… well," He cleared his throat, "In them it's like nothing had changed. We… we live together and… he's being Sherlock and I'm being John. And we're laughing and solving murders and looking for missing persons and protecting the country and…" He trailed off. How can Ella always make him say things he didn't want to say?

There was a deadly silence in the room. John was trying not to cry. Pathetic. He knew how insane and stupid he sounded. Sherlock was just his friend. He knew him for few years. It was unreasonable to feel this way.

"I see you can't deal with the feelings you have," John just nodded. What he could say? He already said so much. "Maybe you should try to write your blog again," He nodded again. Won't happen. "And maybe I should prescribe you some medication."


	5. Chapter 5

Beta reader: SapphireElric

The violin.

He once asked me what would be my last words before I died. The answer was simple. I wonder what were his…

XXX

It was his second beer, Lestrade's fourth. They were quiet, had been since they entered the bar, except for the rare times when either of them ordered another drink. More often then not it was his companion. The one who had called with the goal to get as drunk as humanly possible.

John himself wanted to get pretty drunk too, but the responsibility of his friend didn't allow that. This night wasn't about him. It was about Lestrade and his now ex-wife.

There was an awkward silence between them. It was the first time that Lestrade didn't try to pull him into a conversation. Actually John was trying to think of a topic to start one. To take Lestrade's mind off his wife.

John thought that after all the comfort he had received he would be able to do it naturally, but that wasn't true. Buying a new drink for Lestrade was everything he had done till now.

"So, how's the case going?" John finally spoke up as the detective inspector was finishing his fourth beer.

"What case?" Came the grunt. Lestrade had put down his empty glass and was staring right at him.

"The one you told me about. With the businessman and-"

"It's not my case anymore. It's Dimmock's now." Lestrade interrupted him, his voice calm and cool, his eyes still on John.

The doctor remembered the twitchy, doubtful, but stubborn detective inspector. He couldn't say for certain that giving this case to that man was the smartest idea, but he didn't question Lestrade.

"Oh, well…" John trailed off.

Lestrade soon stood up to get another drink and John noted how he swung a little as he walked. The other man returned with two glasses of beer. Handed him one while keeping the other. John hadn't finished his second beer and somehow John knew that he wouldn't be the one drinking the new one, but accepted it anyway.

John didn't really know that the divorce had affected Greg so much. The times they met before, Lestrade hadn't showed any kind of emotions toward his wife except maybe disappointment and tiredness. Not even anger.

But now looking at him, John saw the rings under the man's eyes, and the wrinkles on his forehead and few more grey hairs by his ears. He had defiantly aged a little with all his emotions. Greg was a quiet man and just like John didn't like to express his feelings too much, so sometimes it was hard to understand him.

"Can I ask you something?" Lestrade startled John.

"Yeah," John took another sip of his drink, looking at Lestrade's already half empty glass.

"What did Sherlock tell you, when he called right before jumping?" His voice was low and serious and John would bet the man before him was sober if he hadn't seen the four glasses disappearing right before his eyes.

"What?" John was confused. He hadn't told anyone about that conversation, not Molly, not Mrs Hudson and not even his therapist. How did Lestrade know?

"Come on, I'm a cop. I checked his phone records." John should have suspected that. A lot of people still thought that Sherlock was a criminal and had kidnapped those two kids. "What did you talk about?"

"Nothing,"

"Don't believe you for a second." Lestrade stared at him for a while, the gaze so intense. And when he felt that John wouldn't share that information added, "Come on, John. You can't tell me you chatted about the weather. There needs to be a reason why you're so angry."

"I'm not angry," His defensive self kicked in and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yes you are. You might think you're hiding it, but really, mate, I'm seeing through it." Lestrade had leaned closer, his voice not the usual harsh and strict inspector voice he used at work.

John looked at his friend. There was curiosity in his eyes, but he also cared. He wouldn't have asked if he didn't. But still, John didn't feel comfortable talking about it. Maybe he was being selfish, but it was Sherlock's note… to him. He wanted to keep it that way. Wanted to feel for a moment longer that Sherlock cared about him more than about others.

But possibly he didn't want to tell Lestrade Sherlock's last wish-to let everyone know he's fake. John knew it wasn't true, but he didn't know where Lestrade stood when it came to this question. They hadn't talked about that. Simply after Sherlock's death it hadn't seemed so important between them.

"Just drop it," John shook his head, but was soon interrupt by Lestrade's 'I won't,'

"Why is it so important?" John asked trying to avoid the subject. "He's dead anyway. Forget it."

"But I want to help you. The anger-it's eating you up mate," Lestrade looked at him like he was a kicked puppy; like he couldn't take care of himself; like he was a kid.

"I'm not angry so stop saying I am. I'm not! Why would I be? I'm alright, fine, awesome! I don't need your help or your encouraging speeches, stop babying me!" John understood he was yelling only after he finished. The bartender glared at him and John nodded his apologies. It was late but there were some customers; now they whispered quietly, pointing at him.

What was wrong with him? Why did he yell at everyone-Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade?

"I'm not babying you," John was brought out of his thoughts when Greg murmured under his nose.

John should apologize to him. He really should, but just like before he found himself unable to do that. He knew it wasn't Lestrade's fault. He was just tired and grumpy and bored and unhappy. More than he's been in his entire life. Sherlock just knew how to make people miserable.

"He said it's his note. Said that's what people do before killing themselves-leave a note," John said quietly. Maybe it wasn't an apology, but it was something.

"Sherlock said that?" Lestrade asked after few seconds had passed. John nodded. There was a moment of silence after that. Lestrade was giving him time, but John was looking for his next words, choosing them wisely.

"He tried to convince me… he's fake," John finally got the courage to say it. He feared it was everything Lestrade needed to fully believe these lies. Will they stop being friends then? Will Lestrade think he's insane? "Like I would ever believe that,"

"That explains your anger," John's words died on his lips. It wouldn't prove anything if he said he's not angry. He had just yelled at Greg for no reason at all. He had to face the truth-he was angry. Why? Who knows?

Sherlock would.

John shook his head. The point was he was so fucking angry all the time that he was starting to attack his friends. And he didn't want to lose more of them. He already had just few.

All this thing with Sherlock's death was really starting to affect his life. Or had it affected it all this time? John rubbed his forehead and eyes. He was so tired he could fall asleep right here and now. If he didn't fear he would wake up in cold sweat, whimpering like a child. Nightmares.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade wanted to reach out to John but stopped. Why was Lestrade asking for forgiveness? He wasn't guilty that Sherlock was a crazy sociopath. Or how he put it 'highly functional sociopath'.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Like I said: he's dead," He was repeating it so much. Was he trying to convince himself? "You know at the funeral day, I don't know what was wrong with me, but I was standing in front of his grave and asking him to be alive," John rubbed his eyes again. There were tears on his fingers afterwards. "I'm so stupid. After all that time I actually thought he cared,"

"John," This time Lestrade did reach out for him. His hand squeezed his shoulder while they shook under the detective inspector's hand. John was crying. Like a…. like a sad, faithless man. He was.

He couldn't stop. He hadn't cried since that day. Since he actually hoped that it all was some stupid trick, experiment and that Sherlock was alive. He had hoped. And he had been smashed into the ground. Sherlock was dead for real. John would never see him.

"I'm so sorry," John tried to pull himself together but couldn't. Please stop apologizing.

"It's no-not your fault," John sobbed. It was so humiliating. Another reason for all the other customers to whisper and point at him. He needed to forget it, needed to move on. Oh, how many times he had said that…

"John," Lestrade sounded hopeless. John felt hopeless. How can one man's death, who wasn't that good, leave so many broken? John would feel angry, if he wasn't so tired. "Look, Sherlock's an ass; forget about him. You know, since the day I first met you I knew it wouldn't end well. I knew being in his presence constantly wouldn't make anything better for you," And I was right, was left unspoken. Like it was necessary to say it. Take a look at him, it hadn't made anything better.

But John wanted to shake his head. Wanted to deny it. Because for a moment, until the suicide part, everything had been great. It had been the best months of his life. He finally had someone who cared; in his own weird, emotionless way. But his way wasn't anything worse then Lestrade's way or Mycroft's.

"Hey," John's friend rubbed his shoulder. He pushed the still full glass closer to him and smiled. "Sherlock's dead, right. And maybe it's better if it stays that way. I mean, you'll get over him and then you can, like, start a new life; away from here; away from London and Baker Street." This time John did shake his head. He liked here. With his-few-friends.

"Then we'll see, okay?" Lestrade rubbed his shoulder one more time before releasing it. And slowly John's breathing came back to normal. Just a short panic attack? Would his therapist call it that? And then plead with him to take the pills?

He looked up at Lestrade. He was smiling; hadn't stopped. John didn't even dare to look around himself. Maybe they were in the darkest corner of the bar, but it wasn't that dark.

In the end John did not drink that beer. But Lestrade happily accepted the offered glass and emptied it. John couldn't drink right now. Everything he could think about was Sherlock this and Sherlock that. He couldn't even believe how much time he spent thinking about him. The man, even dead, was occupying his brain. What was wrong with him? Was he really going insane? The thought had been there for months but now… John didn't want to think about that. Better think about Sherlock.

But even if he wanted to stop thinking about him, he wouldn't be able to. His best friend was everything; no-he was his whole life now. And that frightened John. It was scary. He didn't want to be that way; go insane…

Thinking about the pills Ella prescribed, since this day he had strongly believed he didn't need them… but maybe he did.

"Alright, are you ready to go?" John looked up. Lestrade was looking pretty drunk; his eye glassy and posture unsteady.

"I'll take you home," John rose, helping his friend out of the bar.

It was late; already dark and as far as John could see-no people. Somehow he got a cab for them. The ride to Greg's little flat was eventful. His friend first sung some rude but catchy song. The cabby asked him to stop. Greg wasn't listening, so John had to force him. Then Greg decided that he wanted to vomit, the cabby yelled at them, then pleaded the drunken man not to do it in his cab. So the ex-army doctor wasn't surprised that the cabby took off as soon as he paid.

But at least Greg's flat was on the first floor. So no long journey. When Greg was on his sofa and John suspected bed too and there was a bucket by his head, John was ready to leave. The other man was already getting sleepy.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade mumbled pulling the blanket higher.

"It's alright. You better sleep now," John looked around again noting that his friend had everything he might need; a glass of water on the coffee table and an aspirin.

"No, I'm a terrible friend," Lestrade grabbed his leg.

"No, I am a terrible friend." And this time he wasn't lying. He was a terrible friend. This night was about Lestrade and his ex-wife but everything John did was whine about Sherlock. How could that help Greg?

John unclenched Greg's hand from his trousers. The man was already sleeping. The doctor made it out of the door as quietly as possible locking it. He made sure the key then was safely in Greg's mailbox before leaving the house.

This time John couldn't find a cab; so walking then. He wasn't that far from Baker Street. Only about forty minutes… Possibly, if he walked fast. John sighed.

The night was a beautiful and quiet. And cold. John pulled his jacket closer. New Year. Wasn't it great? The best way to celebrate it-getting drunk. God, he was turning into his sister.

Where did all his New Year resolutions go? The plan to visit his parents in spring and get out of London this summer and stop eating so many take-outs. Now they all seemed insignificant. His life had been consumed by Sherlock. Maybe he should take those pills.


End file.
